All Our Little Secrets
by ClockworkAssassin
Summary: [AC Syndicate] Oneshot, might be continued. Jacob Frye has fought every gang leader in London, but he's not the slightest bit prepared for Maxwell Roth.


_A/N: To be entirely honest, I did not think this would ever be my ship, but here we are. The feels were too much to resist. I hope you all enjoy._

_(Maybe I'll continue this if I get enough interest? It's kind of just a partial fic I wrote for fun, but I might write an Act II if anyone's interested.)_

_Content warning: Moderate swearing and some non-explicit descriptions of physical intimacy. Also angst, because I had to._

* * *

~ Act I, Scene I: The Letter ~

* * *

Jacob Frye had always loved the theater. The whimsical colors and dramatic players, the exquisite costumes and lush scenery, the dramatic monologues and showman's flair - somehow it all struck a chord in him, a resounding melody in his soul. There was just something magical about the stage, the slightest touch of sorcery that all the flat paintings and dry sculptures in art museums that Evie dragged him to could never hope to replicate.

Of course, that didn't stop her from trying to refine his tastes in the slightest. "Evie, this is _boring," _he complained on a muggy spring afternoon, when she insisted on taking him to see an exhibition of still lifes at the National Gallery. "These are all just flowers and bowls of fruit. If I wanted to talk about fruit all day I'd go play another word game with Bell."

"I'm trying to teach you some class, dear brother." Evie gestured to a painting of plums and apples. "Look at this. You see this? This is art, Jacob."

He stared at it for a good thirty seconds, trying very hard to find some meaning in it. "Ah," he said wisely, adopting a posh accent. "I see. Very good. Yes. The shadows of the bowl and the vibrancy of the colors, it is all quite suggestive."

"You're insufferable." Evie sighed one of her long-suffering, _I can't believe we're related _sighs. "Just once I ask you to go somewhere that _I _want to go, and you have to make a scene of it."

"Oh, because we always do what I want."

"For your information, I've gone to plenty of your taverns and blackjack games and drinking tournaments, and you didn't hear me complaining. Would it kill you to do something _intellectual _and _interesting _with me every now and then?"

"I'm _bored__," _he whined, and she rolled her eyes.

"Look, if you can keep your hands to yourself and stop blathering on for ten minutes, I'll buy you an ale on the way home."

"I'm not a child," he said, indignantly.

"Two ales, then."

He obediently kept his mouth shut as she did a circuit of the gallery, and then dragged him over to a circle of giggling women to talk to the artist. She spent a good twenty minutes chatting with the painter, a sprightly young Frenchman who couldn't be a day over twenty (Jean Frédéric Bazille, or something? Jacob didn't really care about artist's names), and while they blathered on about palettes and paint textures and brush techniques and other extremely uninteresting nonsense, Jacob plopped down on a bench, yawned widely, and began playing with his Hidden Blade, snapping it idly in and out. _Snap. Snick. Snap. Snick._

"That's not a toy, Jacob," Evie snapped at him finally, when she noticed what he was doing. "That's a delicate machine with hundreds of moving parts, all of which are necessary to keep you alive, and none of which should be out in public. Put it away."

"You're starting to sound like Father again," he muttered, but he grudgingly concealed it back in his sleeve. "Can we go home now? I'm going to miss my mate's funeral."

"That was last week, and no. I have to catch Monsieur Gapello before we leave. He's helping Ned smuggle some art through customs."

"Fine," Jacob grumbled, and sat patiently on his bench as she slipped away through the crowd. "I'll be here," he said loudly, to nobody in particular. "Doing nothing and being bored, as usual."

He twiddled his thumbs for a while, watching the crowd mill about. Whenever he had nowhere to be and nothing better to do, he liked to watch people, to see what they were about; it was probably a habit he'd picked up from Dickens, or one of those other eccentric writer types he kept bumping into. He noticed a woman in a pink dress arguing with her husband about his gambling problem, saw a pair of old women slip out of the bathroom disheveled and giggling, overheard someone whispering to a fat bloke about being late on payments. All stories of their own, all strange and flawed and interesting. Or at least, more interesting than those damn paintings.

Perhaps he let his eyes slip shut for a moment, or perhaps he zoned out staring at a bowl of peaches. Whatever it was that distracted him, he didn't feel the quiet movement of someone sit down on the bench beside him, nor did he notice them get up and quietly slip back into the crowd. Only when he blinked and shook himself back to earth, and his gaze wandered over to the empty side of the bench did he notice the embossed, carefully sealed letter sitting beside him, waiting for him. On it were two solitary words, in beautiful, looping script:

_Jacob Frye._

He looked frantically about, but saw no one; his senses betrayed nothing out of the ordinary. Yet someone had been here, a messenger. To deliver... a letter? For him?

Bewildered, he slowly picked it up and slit it open with his fingernail. He unfolded the letter inside. It was also written in that lovely, flowing script, and the more he read, the more baffled he became. When he had finished, he tucked it into his coat pocket and stared at the peach painting, wondering how on Queen Victoria's green earth he was going to explain this to his sister.

As if on cue, Evie emerged from the crowd, glaring at him. "We can go now, Jacob," she said. "You don't have to pretend to enjoy being here anymore."

"Er," he said. "I think there's something we need to talk about."

Evie frowned. "What?"

"Maxwell Roth," he said.

"Oh." Evie raised an eyebrow. "The most dangerous man in London, and Starrick's lapdog. The self-professed leader of the Blighters. What about him?"

"He's invited me to dinner," Jacob said.

Evie stared at him for a long moment, as though unable to process the words. "You can't be serious," she said at length.

"True as gospel." Jacob waved the letter at her. "Someone dropped me this message while I was busy enjoying your _fascinating _paintings. It's genuine."

"You're not going, though." She squinted, searching his face for his answer. "Are you?"

"Well, I was thinking about it," he wheedled, but she cut him off.

"No, I don't want any more of your stunts, Jacob. This is obviously a trap and he's going to slit your throat the moment you walk through the door. The only reason he's interested in you is because Starrick is, and you know exactly why Starrick's got his eyes on us."

"Right. Of course," he said hastily; the look on her face made her opinion on the matter very clear. "I'm not going, Evie, I swear. I'll burn the letter."

"Good." She visibly relaxed. "Knowing you, I was worried you were considering it. But I don't know what possessed him to invite you in the first place. How could he possibly expect you to accept?"

"It is silly, isn't it?" Jacob rose from the bench and yawned exaggeratedly. "Well, we should get back to the train. Can't go missing lunch with Greenie, now can we?"

"For the last time, will you stop calling him that?" Evie headed out of the gallery, and he trailed after her. "He has a name."

"That is his name. Henry Greenie."

"_Green, _Jacob."

"What? I thought I heard Greenie."

"You're hysterical." She sighed as they weaved through the streets of London, heading towards the station. "Do you have insulting nicknames for everyone, or just him?"

"What, you mean nicknames for Freddie and Train-Boy? Don't be absurd."

Evie gave him a very patient look. "Sometimes I wonder how you survived to adulthood, Jacob Frye."

"Sometimes I wonder how your head fits through doorways," he said, and even though it wasn't his most spectacular comeback, the glare she gave him in response was more enjoyable than an entire afternoon of staring at teapots and vegetables.

* * *

~ Act I, Scene II: The Dinner ~

* * *

It wasn't until past lunch and well into the day, when the humidity had faded and the sun flirted with the rooftops, that Jacob took the letter out of his pocket again and seriously debated attending the dinner.

He stared at it for a while, weighing his options. He could burn this letter and forget it ever happened, of course; the leader of a rival street gang wanting him to come over for scones and tea set off all kinds of colorful alarm bells in his head. But then again, the man had simply invited him to dinner, not threatened his life or detailed all the ways he planned to murder Jacob's family and friends (that had been the tactic of choice for a few of his subordinates, whom Jacob had kindly answered by shoving a blade down their throats). Asking him out to dine, and so politely at that, seemed an odd request for someone who was supposedly so bent on killing him and leaving his body for the crows.

What if maybe, just maybe, he gave it a chance?

And that was the train of thought which led him to check to make sure Evie was out with Greenie, put on his best fineries - which for him was merely a slightly less raggedy jacket and top hat - and set out to dine with his mortal enemy, for no other reason than sheer curiosity. And, of course, a touch of admiration for the reckless audacity of the request. Surely the man must know that he, Jacob Frye, was an extraordinarily dangerous opponent, almost as deadly as his sister and with half the restraint?

But when he arrived at the Alhambra, sword-cane clicking merrily on the cobblestones, his first sight was not of an armed Templar gang waiting for him, but of the music hall itself. And it made him stop dead. He'd never really appreciated how _magnificent _it was before, how huge and imposing over the surrounding streets. The illuminated letters above the entryway seemed to shout proudly into the sky: _ALHAMBRA._

He gave it a wry smile as he headed for the front entrance, and tried the door. It was locked.

Well, there was always a back entrance. He hummed cheerily to himself as he wandered around the area, searching for a way in; when he rounded the corner into the side alley, there was a doorman waiting for him, a stone-faced man in a bowler hat who regarded him with cool disinterest.

"Yes?" he said, in a voice that was utterly devoid of inflection; his complete indifference was almost terrifying. Thankfully, there were only two things in the world that Jacob was scared of: his sister, and losing his sister. This man, however unnerving, didn't even make the list.

"I'm here to see Mr. Roth," he said, handing the man his invitation. The man studied it, expressionless.

"Weapons?" he asked.

"No thank you," Jacob said, cheekily. "I've got my own."

The doorman looked deeply unimpressed by his wit. "You should be on the stage, sir," he said, flatly. Then he opened the door. "This way."

Jacob meandered inside, lazily taking his time; he wanted to put on an air of complete confidence, just to give the Templars a good show in case they really were thinking of putting an arrow in his throat. That, and the theatrical atmosphere was infusing him with a strange flair he hadn't known he had; he almost waltzed through the backstage area and up to the lavishly prepared dinner table, where the food was already waiting. And beside it, the man he'd come to meet.

It was a strange thing, Jacob would think later, how automatically he gravitated to this man even before he'd laid eyes on him. It was as though there was an eldritch magnetism drawing him to this table, on this night, at this very moment, a force he could never have hoped to stop. Of course, only later, with the gift of hindsight, would he understand the horrible, devastating importance of the moment his gaze landed on Maxwell Roth and he suddenly realized this was not at _all_ going to be the kind of dinner he had been expecting.

He'd looked at men before. Well, not necessarily looked; perhaps occasionally stood a little too close to, or playfully patted on the shoulder, or cracked a crude joke with now and then. Anything beyond that would have gotten him hanged. And yet, looking at this man now in a darkened theater where the world could not see and watch and judge, Jacob Frye found himself undeniably, deeply, hopelessly attracted to Maxwell Roth, the Templar, the Blighter, the man who was the exact opposite of everything he _should _be falling in love with, the man who was the opposite precisely because he was a _man_.

And yet here Jacob was, not running for his life the way his mind was screaming for him to do. _Run, _his brain wailed, _run away while you still can and forget all about this, _but he wasn't moving. For Maxwell Roth, as it turned out, was a tall, wiry man with a shock of greyish-brown hair, and a devilish light in his eyes that spoke of watching men die. He had the looks of a demon and the fierce grin of a murderer, and even as Jacob stood staring at him, unable to tear his eyes away, the man whirled and grinned like a wildcat. "Ah!" he proclaimed, theatrically. "Our honored guest has arrived." Then, gesturing to a chair, "Come. Sit."

Jacob sat, almost without thinking; his eyes were still fixed on Roth, his heart pounding madly in a way it had never done before. He suddenly found himself deeply missing the fruit paintings as his strange host fetched him a bottle of wine and a flagon.

"I've had my eye on you for some time," he said, pouring him a drink. "I find your heroics in battling the great Crawford Starrick quite magnificent."

Somehow Jacob managed to locate his vocal chords in the mist of his hammering heart. "I've been picking off your soldiers one by one," he said, taking the flagon; he forced himself to ignore the slight tremor in his fingers. "Doesn't that make you angry?"

"On the contrary." Roth laughed, those crow's eyes glittering with the thrill of the hunt. Somehow Jacob had a bad feeling about who was the prey. "Surprise is the spice of life!"

_Damn it all, _Jacob thought fervently, _damn you to hell, _but despite his frantic thoughts his heart would not stop thundering like a runaway carriage. _Why are you doing this to me?_

"Now Mr. Starrick, that's a different story. I'm drownin' in directives, all terribly boring." Maxwell leaned down closer, grinning at Jacob with a wild, fearsome energy. "Let's say we work together... and bring him down."

Jacob looked at him, his heart stuttering like a broken record, and wasn't sure whether to be furious at himself for agreeing to this or bewildered at how intense a reaction this man was provoking in him. "I'm not so sure about that," he said, suddenly wanting nothing more than to get out of this situation as soon as possible. But of course Roth was having none of that.

"My friend, if I fail to provide you with the chance to cause Starrick some pain..." He shrugged, as if it didn't really bother him. "Well, you can charge into this theater and kill me yourself."

Jacob closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus. _Stay professional, stay calm, you are the leader of the Rooks and he works for a man who very strongly wants you dead._ "What do you get out of all this?"

Maxwell beamed, clearly delighted by the question. "The chance to have a little fun," he proclaimed, gesturing dramatically to the empty theater around them, "with the bravest man in London!"

Jacob could see through the flattery, of course, but in the moment nothing else seemed to matter; nothing existed but the two of them and this table, and the silent theater all around. He was in a play, he realized all at once, a wild, strange, gloriously illegal stage play, and here was the alluring, handsome devil who would lead him astray, and here he was drinking his wine and smiling and playing along and _staying._

Why was he staying?

He didn't know. And he also didn't know why, instead of stabbing Roth in the stomach right then and there, he lifted his flagon and clinked it against Roth's bottle, with the finality of a man accepting his fate. "You have a deal," he said.

Roth's smile was terrifying, and his laugh more so. Jacob uncomfortably laughed with him, unsure whether he had just made the greatest decision of his life or signed his death warrant; but Roth only whirled, with all the theatric glee of a born stageman. "Lewis!" he called. "My carriage!"

* * *

~ Act I, Scene III: The Admirer ~

* * *

"There's another letter for you, Jacob."

Jacob looked up as Evie dropped the letter on his lap, with all the unceremonious dignity of depositing a large pile of shite. "Thank you, dear sister," he said wearily, and slit it open. Sure enough, there was that flowing writing again, inviting him to a second dinner. Of course, he had to pretend to ignore the fact that Roth called it a "second date," and also ignore the little flowers and hearts and flourishes with which Roth had signed his name, in luxuriously large font at the bottom: _Maxwell Roth._

He didn't notice Evie peering over his shoulder until she spoke, making him jump. "Who's writing you with hearts, Jacob?"

"No one," he said hastily, fumbling to cover the letter with his jacket. "Just a friend."

"I see," Evie said, clearly not believing him. She settled down on the couch across from him, opening a newspaper. "Well, if you're going out again tonight, make sure to wipe your boots this time. You tracked mud all across the carpet, and you know Agnes just replaced it."

"Sorry if I was out crippling Starrick's henchmen and blowing up Starrick's dynamite shipments." Jacob cocked an eyebrow at her. "Meanwhile, you were, I presume, reading."

Evie sighed. "Just because it's not as exciting as your work doesn't mean it's not work, Jacob."

"Of course, how rude of me. I'll let you get back to collecting flowers with your boyfriend."

Evie threw her paper down. "JACOB -"

"Oh dear, look at the time!" He darted for the door, and Evie chased after him, waving the newspaper as though to swat him. "I really have things to attend to, Blighters to kill, you know how it is!"

"Come back here, you cocky piece of shite!" she yelled, as he vaulted out of the train and down to the ground. "When you get back I'm going to -"

He never got to learn what she was going to do to him, because he was already leaping nimbly onto a carriage and riding at breakneck speed off to Roth's, grinning fiendishly the whole way. He hated to admit it, but despite his initial misgivings, he really was starting to enjoy their "dates." Of course, whatever Roth wanted out of their relationship, he was content just to rob trains and light things on fire, at least for now. It never had to go any farther than that.

The next engagement proved no less enjoyable. He rounded up three of Starrick's henchmen, to Roth's delight; after they had sent them off with the Blighters, they headed back to the Alhambra for a well-earned meal. "Look, Jacob," Roth said, proudly showing him his newest acquisition, a little crow in a cage who squawked and stared at Jacob with beady eyes. "He is beautiful, isn't he?"

Somehow, he said it in a way that made Jacob wonder if he was really talking about the bird. But before he could ask, Roth was talking again. "Tell me, my dear," he said, filling Jacob's flagon for the second time that evening. "I must ask. That girl you spend time with - do you love her?"

Jacob stared, uncomprehending. "What girl?"

"The one with the glasses, darling. She's always going on about the trains."

"Oh!" Jacob suddenly realized he was talking about his friend, Ned Wynert. "Oh, that's Ned. He's a man. Good friend of mine."

"My mistake. But of course -" Roth winked. "My question still stands."

"No, we're not together." Jacob forced himself not to react to the question, instead taking a sip of his wine. Roth must have upgraded his choice of red; it tasted much better than last time, subtle and flavorful. "You wouldn't happen to be with Lewis, would you?"

"Not for a long time, my dear."

And in that moment an unspoken understanding passed between them. _Yes, _the air murmured, _we are both outcasts, we are both a bit peculiar, aren't we?__ We like people we should not like. It is even possible that we could like each other. _But of course neither of them said it. Instead Roth poured him yet more wine. "Drink freely, my darling. I will have Lewis drive you home."

"I shouldn't be getting too tipsy." But it _was _good wine, and Jacob found himself drinking more, even though his head was already swimming and the room was starting to get a bit blurry. He shook himself out of his haze, forcing his brain to piece together coherent thoughts long enough to continue the conversation. "Now that I've told you something, you have to tell me something."

"Oh?" Roth chuckled. "And what's that, my dear?"

"This theater," Jacob said. "The plays, the shows, the dramas. You must have better ways to spend your time. Why spend it here?"

"Why, what better way is there to spend my ill-gotten gains than to entertain the world, and myself while I'm at it?" Roth gestured grandly to the silent stands around them, like a ringleader commanding the crowd. "Dazzle the populace, confuse them, make them forget the horrors my men have inflicted upon them for the sake of Starrick's profits. And of course, I always loved the theater."

"I have a soft spot for it," Jacob allowed, and set down his flagon. "But I really should go."

"What? Already?" Perhaps it was just the wine, but he could have sworn Roth sounded dismayed. "It's not even midnight, darling."

"I'm afraid all that running about kidnapping your goons has me exhausted." _And drunk, and foolishly in love with a man I cannot - should not - ever have, and not in any state to be making informed decisions right now. _"I'll see you again soon, Roth. We have more work to do, and I'm not leaving until we've kicked Starrick's legs out from under him."

"Of course, of course, my dear. Shall I send another letter when I have need of you?" Roth smiled one of his wry, charming smiles, the smile that said he always knew more than he let on. "Or, perhaps, when I simply miss you?"

"If you like," Jacob said, evasively, even as his heart clattered at the thought of Roth thinking about him in any way that wasn't purely professional. _Damnit, I really have to stop this charade, _he scolded himself, because of course this could never be; he wasn't even really sure if he was ready to reciprocate these obvious advances. And yet if he was really so disinterested in the man, why did he keep playing along with his games and flirting and dinner parties?

He didn't know if he should be frightened at the realization that he didn't know the answer.

"I'll return soon enough," he said, deciding that was better than nothing.

"I hope you do, darling." And Roth lifted his hand to press a soft kiss to his fingers. "I hope you do."

* * *

~ Act I, Scene IV: The Misgivings ~

* * *

It was scarcely two days before another letter from Roth came for him, embossed, signed and pressed with a lovely rose-colored seal. Jacob stared at it for a long time, unsure whether he wanted to open it or throw it into the fire; by now he'd had a good few nights to ruminate on what he was going to do about this man, and his thoughts had turned from playing along to ending this once and for all. He couldn't go along with whatever this man was playing at anymore, not when it could have been part of some twisted plan all along. Not when it could ruin everything he and Evie had been trying to build.

And so, in a moment of sudden decision, he threw the envelope into the fire, without reading it. He watched the flames consume it in a flash of fire, and in the span of a few seconds it was reduced to a smoking heap of ash. _Good riddance, _he thought, even though his heart ached. _I'm finished with this shite. Time to refocus on the mission. Never let emotions compromise the mission, isn't that what Father was always drilling into our heads?_

And yet looking at that pile of ash in the fireplace made his heart twinge, just a little.

Ned wandered in just then, and noticed his glum expression. "Everything all right, Jacob?"

"Yes, I'm fine." He dragged a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted. "Just tired."

"I should think so." Ned settled down in a chair across from him. "You've been running all over the city robbing trains and blowing things up. What's gotten into you lately? Is it another one of Starrick's blasted half-cousins?"

"No, it's not another Attaway. I've just been... collaborating with someone."

"Collaborating?" Ned raised an eyebrow. "With who?"

"No one," Jacob said, evasively.

"That's what you said last time, and that damn Pearl hussy coerced you into robbery and vandalism of an innocent man's business. And murdering said man at the end of it." Ned squinted at him. "Are you sure you know what you're doing this time?"

Jacob sighed. "Ned, I'm not participating anymore. No more explosions or burglaries or anything like that, none of it. You can relax."

"...Good. People worry about you, you know, especially when you hide things and sneak out for days." Ned studied him thoughtfully. "Evie worries too."

"Evie worries too damn much for her own good."

"That's because she loves you, Jacob."

"Of course she does," Jacob muttered, but he knew it was true. Evie only fretted over him and scolded him so much because she wanted to keep him alive. Behind the sarcastic quips and teasing, she loved her reckless younger brother, and both of them knew it.

The next day he didn't hear anything about Roth, or receive any more letters; he feared how the man would react to him not showing up for their date. As Lewis had offhandedly mentioned to him one day, Roth tended to blow things up when he got upset. But deep down he knew it was better that way. Cutting off all contact with the man was the only way to keep himself from making any more mistakes, and losing control of himself. He had to stop seeing him, and get up the courage to put an end to him, the way he should have done from the very beginning. Permanently.

He tried to forget about him over the days after that, doing the usual things he did to vent his feelings. He killed Templars, got drinks at the tavern, played some rounds of whist, tossed some Blighters into the river. All the while he forced himself not to think about Maxwell Roth or the way his fingers had brushed Jacob's arm in the carriage while they rode to the museum, or the devilish smile he wore when he saw Jacob coming his way, or the way he said "my dear" and "darling" while he poured Jacob wine. He didn't think about any of those things, instead forcing himself to focus on tossing Templar corpses into hay carts and leading Rook squads against gang lords and collecting flowers for Henry's collection (not that he did that).

And then, almost a week after their missed date, he got another letter. It was as embossed and beautiful as ever, and this time there was a red rose that came with it. Jacob sighed, made to throw it into the fire, and then hesitated. Maybe if he just _peeked._..

He opened the letter. Roth's flowery script informed him that he was disappointed Jacob had missed his previous invitation, so he had killed the Blighter who was sent to deliver it (Jacob shuddered internally) and gotten a more "reliable" messenger. He hoped Jacob would be able to join him for dinner tonight instead.

Jacob stared at the letter, his mouth suddenly dry as he contemplated his next move. Roth must have thought he'd just not received the letter, rather than having chosen to ignore it. That meant he had another chance to change his mind.

_But of course, you're not going to, are you? _a little voice in his head murmured, one that sounded suspiciously like Evie. _Burn this one, too. Ignore him. Let him feel rejected. His emotions will make him an easier target._

But there was another option, one that would hopefully spare the city of London from Roth's wrath. And suddenly, Jacob Frye knew what he had to do.

Slowly, he tucked the letter into his coat. Then he trimmed the stem off the flower and set it on Henry's desk, to add to his scrapbook. And only then did he quietly jump off the train and catch a carriage to the Alhambra, with the most peculiar feeling that he was going to regret this.

* * *

~ Act I, Scene V: The Fall ~

* * *

Roth, for his part, was positively delighted to see Jacob again. "My dear!" he cried joyfully, when Jacob walked through the door. "You've returned to me! How lovely. We shall have a feast to celebrate."

"I'm sorry for missing your letter," Jacob said, figuring he might as well go along with the story. "Your messenger must have been intercepted."

"Of course, my dear. Don't worry about it. I only feared my Rook might have flown away." Roth gracefully poured him a fresh glass of wine. "Sit, darling. Drink."

Jacob sat, and drank. Roth took a place beside him, and they were quiet for a while, enjoying the food and drink; Roth had made a lavish meal this time, tarts and fine meats and fruits. It was a far cry from Jacob's usual cuisine, a glass of grog and a bite at the tavern here and there between missions. He briefly wondered how Roth could afford such extravagance, until he remembered. _Oh, right. He's a Templar who could still very well want me dead. How could I forget?_

Roth, however, was playing the part of the gracious host beautifully; he betrayed no sign of anger at Jacob's slight against him, but rather lavished him with charm. "More wine, dear?" he asked, noticing Jacob's glass was getting low. "I have a new port I bought just for you."

"I'd love some," Jacob said, holding out his goblet. Roth filled it to the brim and corked the bottle.

"So tell me, darling," he said, as Jacob took a sip. "I have to know. Where do you see this relationship going?"

Jacob tried very hard to keep his eyes on the wine. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. You wouldn't be here if you didn't."

"You... intrigue me," Jacob allowed. "And I enjoy our time together."

"But?" Roth said, drawing out the word.

Jacob hesitated. "I don't think we can ever be anything," he said at length. "I'm an Assassin, and you're a Templar. And even if we were on the same side, even if we could hide our time together... someone would find out eventually. We'd be hanged in the streets."

"Since when has a hardened Assassin like you feared the law?" Roth chuckled. "No, I think there's something else going on. What is it? Fear of commitment? Incompatibility? Tell me, darling, I really must know."

Jacob closed his eyes, deeply conflicted but knowing it had to be done. "I don't have to explain, Roth. But whatever it is we're doing, whatever you think we are - it's finished. We're done, Roth."

Roth was quiet for a while. "So," he said, finally realizing why Jacob had come here. "You didn't show up to have a date. You came here to spurn me."

"It's not like that," Jacob tried, but Roth shook his head.

"No, I understand. Don't worry, darling. You have your problems, and I have mine. If it's not meant to be, then so be it. We are a Blighter and a Rook, an Assassin and a Templar. And nothing more."

Jacob frowned, surprised he was taking it so well; everything he'd heard about the man had made him terrified of how he'd react to the news. "Yes," he said, unsure what else to say. "We are."

"Have some more wine, darling."

They ate and drank in silence after that, and all the while Jacob feared what Roth would say next; surely he was about to be angry, surely he would rage and burn and kill for this slight. But Roth seemed perfectly calm, affably cutting into his food as though Jacob had only offered him the time of day rather than painfully reject him.

Finally Jacob couldn't take the silence anymore. "Are we still partners?" he ventured. "Taking Starrick down piece by piece?"

"Of course, my dear. You can be assured that I won't let this affect our efforts." Roth gave him one of his mysterious, knowing smiles. "After all, every play must go on."

Jacob mulled over this as he finished his wine and cleaned his plate. He was just setting down his silverware when Roth said, "Tell me one thing, Jacob, my dear."

"Yes?" he asked, warily.

"What are you afraid of?"

Jacob frowned, not understanding.

"You must fear something," Roth said. "And I don't think it's being hanged, darling, is it?"

Jacob's heart missed a beat. "I -" He didn't think he was going to say it, but there was something about the wine and good food and the unexpected look of empathy in Roth's eyes that made the truth come tumbling out. "I don't want anyone to know about me. Least of all my sister, and my friends. They would hate me, even more than they do already. I can't risk this."

"I understand, darling."

"And my father..." Jacob dragged a hand across his face. "He always loved Evie more, I knew he did. I was his troubled child, the one who was always running off and getting into messes. Maybe he knew, maybe he didn't tell Evie why he hated me so much -" His voice broke.

He could almost swear Roth sounded sympathetic, gentle. "Your father was unkind to you."

"More than unkind. If he saw me with another man..." Jacob suddenly realized he had just poured his heart out to _Maxwell Roth, _of all people, and sheepishly backpedaled a bit. "I mean - he was fine, I didn't hate him, but -"

"Don't lie to yourself, darling. It is a miserable, sorry life, to lie to yourself about who you are." Roth's eyes glittered as he studied Jacob, with a new, fierce look in his eyes. "You must learn to be yourself, darling. You must not let others yoke you, or tell you what you cannot be or cannot do. _Freedom, _Jacob. Embrace it."

Jacob managed a weak laugh. "I never thought I'd be receiving emotional support from you, Roth."

"And yet here we are." Roth touched his hand suddenly, playing with his fingers; Jacob felt his heart skip a beat. "And I could offer you more. All the freedom you ever wanted, my dear. I would move the world and break this city over my knee to have you."

It was so tempting. All he would have to do was lean over the table, all he would have to do was take his hand... but that was the path to ruin, it would destroy everything. Jacob tugged his hand away. "I've done enough already," he said, even though he didn't know who he was trying to convince anymore. Himself? "I told you, Roth. This can't be."

"It _can, _darling!" Roth said, with such intense, theatric passion that it gave Jacob goosebumps. "It can! You must only allow it. I would never think to force anyone into anything, least of all you, darling. That is Starrick's way, to force and coerce - not mine."

Jacob wavered. "How can I trust you? A Templar, a Blighter, an enemy?"

"Not your enemy, darling. I am the enemy of your enemy. That is quite another matter entirely." Roth would not let go of his fingers; he kept stroking his palms, touching the scars on his knuckles from bar fights and brawls in his youth. "Let me be yours, darling, and I will show you the world. I will put on so many plays for you, and give you everything I have, and lavish you with all you desire. You need only tell me I can."

The thundering of Jacob's heart was almost unbearable; he could barely hear himself think. He had told himself he would not do this, he had promised himself he wouldn't give in to this man. But he had suppressed his desires for so long that when they came roaring back to life now, they were more intense than ever before. _No, no, you can't, you can't -_

Roth tugged gently on his hand. "Come here, darling."

He found himself moving almost against his will, drawn to Roth by that strange magnetism the man had over him. It almost felt like they were in a play again, a drama on the stage, except this time it was real and Roth was pulling him into his lap, the food and wine forgotten; and Jacob's last resistance melted away as the man pressed soft, wine-warmed kisses to his lips and neck, his fingers digging into Jacob's hips so hard it hurt. "I've been dying for you, Jacob, darling," he murmured, and from there the Assassin was lost for good.

He had been with women before. Not recently, and not very many; just a few foolish trysts in his youth, things better left forgotten. But never like this. With Roth it was not the awkward, fumbling fervency of youthful inexperience; with Roth it was wild and dangerous and exhilarating, the predator hunting him like prey, candlelight and torn sheets and wine drops on the pillows. The rapture of finally having each other after so much waiting and maneuvering, the rush of finally letting himself go after the mazurka of dagger and cloaks he had been dancing for weeks on end, made Jacob forget everything for a while, all thoughts of Rooks and Blighters and Assassins and Templars and how incredibly angry Evie was going to be with him in the morning.

But of course morning came. He stirred blearily, yawning and blinking sunlight out of his eyes, and found that the other side of the bed was empty; Roth must have gotten up first. There was a red rose and a little note on the pillow, with hearts doodled along the sides: _I had to rush out for some urgent business this morning, darling. Help yourself to breakfast from my pantry. I do, however, hope you aren't seen here for too long. - M_

Well, that certainly went without saying. He had no desire to be seen here long either, lest some Blighters wander in to report to their boss and catch the leader of the rival gang lying naked in his bed. That would prompt some awkward questions.

Jacob bashfully disentangled himself from the sheets and went to find his clothes. He first tracked down his belt, lying on the floor beside the bed with teeth marks in the leather (hopefully Evie wouldn't notice). Then he located his pants and shirt, thrown carelessly over a chair, and finally his weapons and top hat, perched delicately on Roth's writing desk. At least the man had proven himself trustworthy enough not to steal his Hidden Blade.

He picked up the rose, looked at it thoughtfully, and then, in a moment of sudden decision, tucked it into his top hat. Let the world ask their questions.

He shrugged his clothes back on, tried to put on his usual bravado swagger, and walked confidently out of the Alhambra and back out into the world, pondering how in hell and Hackney he was going to explain himself this time.

* * *

~ Act I, Scene VI: The Train ~

* * *

As he'd expected, Evie was waiting for him when he returned to the train. "You didn't come back last night," she said, without preamble. "Where were you? I had half your gang combing the streets for you."

"Don't worry, Evie. I was just out at the tavern having a bit of fun. I'm allowed to do that, aren't I?" Jacob plopped down on the couch and reclined, yawning. "You don't have to keep an eye on me every hour of the day, you know."

"Yes, but if you're going to be running off drinking with your pub friends, I'd really like to know about it before you just up and go missing for twelve hours." Evie folded her arms, regarding him sternly. "You realize I care about you, Jacob, don't you? I want to make sure you're safe, that's all."

"I know. I appreciate it. But you can relax now - I'm fine, see? Not a scratch on me."

"Well, we've got a lot of work to do today, so I certainly hope -" Evie frowned suddenly. "Are those _bite marks?"_

Jacob had forgotten about those. He hastily pulled his collar up. "No."

"And what's that in your hat?" Evie reached to pull out the rose he'd tucked into the brim of his top hat, but he slapped her hand away.

"Hey, leave off! I can have flowers if I want to, can't I? You certainly seem to like them."

"Yes, and in fact Henry's been teaching me the meaning of them. Do you want to know what a red rose means, Jacob?"

He knew exactly what it meant, because Roth had been sending them to him with every letter now. But he pretended to think carefully about it. "Friendship?" he guessed.

"Not in the slightest, you prick. A red rose is a declaration of love."

"So?" Jacob said, defensively.

Evie sighed, finally putting the pieces together. "Jacob, who were you with last night?"

"Why, dear sister! What on earth makes you think that?" He feigned utter astonishment at so ridiculous a conclusion. "Maybe I was just having some fun with my mates and we went flower picking! Why do you care if I like flower picking?"

"_Jacob," _Evie said, warningly. "You remember what Father said -"

"Oh, Father, Father!" He barked out a laugh. "Let's all listen to Father. God, I'm sick of you sometimes."

Evie raised an incredulous eyebrow, clearly taken aback by his mouth. "Don't you dare talk back to me, Jacob Frye. I don't know who you were with last night, but whoever it was, I hope she was more important than stopping the damn Templars from getting the Piece of Eden."

"Blah, blah, blah." Jacob made a mouth with his hands and flapped his fingers at her mockingly. "Piece of Eden, Apple of Eden, Golden Load of Shite of Eden. What'll the next one be, the Crapper of Eden?"

"Jacob, those pieces are important. They could turn the tide of our war, and you're sitting over there -"

"Whatever."

"Don't you _whatever _me! Father would have said -"

"ENOUGH ABOUT FATHER!" Jacob suddenly felt years of anger rising in him, things he had never dared say until now. "I'm damn tired of hearing about Father, Evie, you know he loved you more than me! I would think he would be slightly less influential in our lives now that he's _dead!"_

"He loved both of us equally, Jacob. Don't you dare say he didn't."

"_He loved you more and you know it!"_

"And what proof do you have? When did he ever treat you differently than me, when did he ever give me something that you didn't get twice over?"

"He gave you goddamn _love, _that's what he gave you! You think I liked getting yelled halfway to Hackney whenever I made the slightest mistake in my training, while he lavished you with praise and always told you how gifted and skilled and wonderful you were, how positively talented you were. Oh, yes, Evie's my special gifted child and that other one just gets in my way, that's how he always thought of us and you know it better than anyone!"

"Jacob -"

"You think I liked getting lip from him whenever I tried to talk to him, or confide in him, or ask him to be a father in my life just _once?_ I could have shit a damn Piece of Eden into the crapper and he still would have liked you better!"

To his surprise, instead of retorting, Evie was silent.

He kept ranting, somehow needing to get it all out. "And when I maybe wanted to tell him about some feelings I was having - maybe it would have been nice if he'd _listened _instead of telling me to go back outside and punch a damn dummy some more to get my emotions out!"

"I'm sorry," Evie said.

Jacob stared at her for a long moment, dumbfounded. It was the first time Evie Frye had ever apologized to him.

"You're right," she said. "Father didn't always treat us equally. I need to stop treating him like an idol, like a perfect teacher. He wasn't perfect, and neither are we. I'm sorry, Jacob."

"It's okay," he said, unable to think of anything else to say; he was still utterly caught off guard by such a sincere, heartfelt apology. He honestly hadn't thought Evie was even capable of admitting she was wrong until now. "I'll be better, too. I'll stop complaining about your advice all the time. I'll listen to you." _Or at least, I'll try, _he amended to himself.

"I would like it if you stopped hiding things from me, at least. Like who you were with last night." Evie sighed. "But you can have your secrets, if you need them. I won't press that, either."

Jacob hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should tell her. But no, that would be suicide in more ways than one. He had to keep this little tryst strictly between him and Roth - for now.

* * *

~ Act I, Scene VII: The Performance ~

* * *

The next time they met, Roth put on a show just for him. "This performance is dedicated to a man who is very dear to my heart," he declared to the crowd, and winked at Jacob, who sat wryly smiling in the VIP section. "Darling, this is for you."

It was a rousing enactment of _A Woman of No Importance, _with Roth as Lord Illingworth and a sprightly young girl as Rachel Arbuthnot. Jacob clapped earnestly during the final bow, and as the guests chatted and discussed the performance afterwards, Roth waved him backstage for their own private meal.

"That was wonderful," Jacob said, as Roth arranged their chairs. "If it hadn't given us away I would have thrown flowers at you."

"Oh, darling, you are too kind. I always thought that was one of the weaker of Wilde's plays." Roth laid out the cutlery and napkins, then patted the chair at the head of the table. "Sit, sit. We must enjoy ourselves before the main event."

"What will the main bill be for next month?" Jacob asked, sitting and poking some cheese into Rook's cage; the bird twittered happily as it snapped up the treat. "Shaw, or Synge?"

"Neither, my dear. I intend to put on my greatest performance yet." Roth gestured dramatically. "I will be having a very special showing of Corvo the Trickster."

"A difficult play," Jacob noted. "Especially the stunts."

"Yes, well, I've been very much looking forward to it. I do hope you will attend, my dear."

"Of course I will." Jacob smiled. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Roth chuckled affectionately. "Eat, darling. I made those raspberry tarts you like."

They dined as Roth's crew bustled about taking down scenery and lights; Jacob had worried they might get some strange looks, but none of them seemed fazed. Apparently Roth dining and flirting with handsome men after his shows was not entirely out of the ordinary.

"I must ask you, darling," Roth said, as Jacob sampled the tarts. "I've heard much about your sister lately."

Jacob looked up warily. "And?"

"She intends to kill me, I believe." Roth delicately dabbed his mouth with his napkin. "Perhaps, in the interest of continuing this lovely arrangement we have, you could dissuade her? I'd rather not hurt someone so close to you."

"Of course. I'll talk to her." But Jacob's heart was hammering in his chest. If he told Evie not to go after Roth, he might risk revealing what he'd been doing for the past month. _Or rather, who, _he thought wearily. "Is there someone I could send her after instead, to avert suspicion?"

"The owner of one of Starrick's weapon factories has been getting a bit troublesome lately. I'll give you his address."

"Excellent."

"But before you go, darling..." Roth smirked charmingly. "Perhaps I could offer you some wine upstairs?"

"Why, that would be lovely," Jacob said.

And lying in bed that night, watching Roth doze beside him and trying not to think about what he was doing, Jacob suddenly realized he was in too deep. He had given in to an urge he should never have given in to, he had lit the fuse on a powder keg that was going to explode whether he liked it or not, he had fucked over everything he and Evie had been trying to build, and yet by all the shite pits in Lambeth, he still wanted more.

Why the bloody hell did he want more?

* * *

~ Act I, Scene IX: The Distraction ~

* * *

He gave Roth's lead to Evie the next morning, and she stared at the slip of paper for a moment, then eyed him suspiciously. "This is a low-level target," she said. "Why are you sending me after him instead of Roth?"

"I was thinking we could weaken Roth's hold on the district before we kill him," Jacob said, evasively. "Aren't you always telling me to use strategy?"

"Well, yes, but - you've never actually taken my advice before." Evie raised an eyebrow, then pocketed the paper. "But I'm happy to see you're keeping your end of the bargain we made, and actually listening to me sometimes."

"Yes, that's what I've been trying to do. Of course." Jacob coughed into his sleeve. "So, er - I'll just be going now."

"Hang on," Evie said, as he turned to leave. "You've snuck out now for two nights in a row. I want to know where you're going, Jacob."

"Nowhere! Can't a man have his privacy?"

"Not you, clearly."

"Oh, come on." Jacob sighed. "It's _personal, _Evie. You can respect me having a love life, can't you?"

"Well, yes, but - I want to make sure it's not Starrick's cousin again."

Jacob threw up his hands in frustration. "For the last time, there was nothing between me and Attaway! He and I have something different -"

Oh, shit.

Oh, hell.

Evie froze. "_He?" _she said, incredulously.

God fucking damn it, he'd outed himself. "She," he said, rapidly. "Er, she. I meant she. Sorry, I get my words mixed up sometimes, you know that -"

"Jacob," she said.

He wilted. "I - I didn't know how to tell you..."

Evie sighed. "Look," she said. "Is he good to you?"

Jacob hesitated. "Yes."

"And he doesn't hurt you."

"No."

"Well, fine, then." She shook her head tiredly. "Just don't go spreading it around. You know what Ned's had to go through."

"Yes." He and Ned had been talking about that quite a bit lately. "I, er - Evie -"

"We don't have to talk about it, Jacob. It's fine."

"But -"

"Jacob, honestly. I don't mind. Frankly, I don't give a damn who you're seeing as long as it's not Roth."

He laughed awkwardly. "Yes, that would be awful, wouldn't it?"

"Christ, Jacob, I'd think you had lost your mind." She turned back to her papers, shaking her head. "You go see your mystery man, then. I'll be here."

"Sounds like a plan." But he wavered at the door. "Evie?"

Evie looked back at him curiously. "Yes, Jacob?"

"I love you," he said. "You know that, don't you?"

"Yes," she said, matter-of-factly, and turned back to her research.

He sighed. "And?"

Grudgingly, she said, "...And I love you too, you big idiot."

"I'll take it," he said, grinning. Finally, he'd said what he had always wanted to say. That seemed to be a trend lately. "I'll see you later, Evie. Maybe we can grab a pint tonight."

"Maybe." She rolled her eyes. "As long as we get some real beer this time, and not that Devil's Acre dishwater."

He tossed her a cheeky grin. "Sold."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it would all come crashing down soon. He knew that Evie would find out, or Roth would do something horrible and break his trust, or somebody would catch them in bed together and ruin the whole charade. But for now, this was enough. Even if it took some lying and sneaking around.

This was enough for him.


End file.
